


Parched

by goodomensblog (just_quintessentially_me), just_quintessentially_me



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Crowley writes poetry, Feelings, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Romance, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 13:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/goodomensblog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me
Summary: Seventeen days, twenty hours and eleven minutes after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, an angel and demon, following a luxurious dinner at Le Gavroche, stroll along a crowded London promenade, their hands intertwined.For Crowley, strolling with the sunset sky bleeding pastel and their interlocked hands swinging between them, it is impossible to conceal the bounce in his step - nor does he try. And it is only his dark glasses, perched diligently on the bridge of his nose, that stand between his pleasure-creased gaze and outright discovery.As they arrive back at Crowley’s apartment, the demon holds open the door. Once inside, Crowley shrugs out of his jacket and then helps Aziraphale with his coat. As the angel settles, Crowley procures a bottle of wine, and it really is shaping up to be an excellent evening when -“Crowley, my dear. You never told me you had a collection of poetry!”Crowley’s arm snaps back, and he forcefully wrenches the cork free of the bottle. It bounces across his immaculate kitchen.





	Parched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nilmiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilmiel/gifts).

> This was written as a birthday present for the lovely Nilmiel (Emily), and I finally, FINALLY remembered to post it here.

Seventeen days, twenty hours and eleven minutes after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, an angel and demon, following a luxurious dinner at Le Gavroche, stroll along a crowded London promenade, their hands intertwined. 

For Crowley, strolling with the sunset sky bleeding pastel and their interlocked hands swinging between them, it is impossible to conceal the bounce in his step - nor does he try. And it is only his dark glasses, perched diligently on the bridge of his nose, that stand between his pleasure-creased gaze and outright discovery.

As they arrive back at Crowley’s apartment, the demon holds open the door. Once inside, Crowley shrugs out of his jacket and then helps Aziraphale with his coat. As the angel settles, Crowley procures a bottle of wine, and it _really is shaping up to be an excellent evening_ when -

“Crowley, my dear. You never told me you had a collection of _poetry_!”

Crowley’s arm snaps back, and he forcefully wrenches the cork free of the bottle. It bounces across his immaculate kitchen.

Aziraphale is kneeling in front of the exposed stash of poetry, and with his hands braced on his knees and his lips pursed in interest, he appears positively_ delighted_ by the discovery.

Crowley, is decidedly less so.

Because Crowley, owner of said poetry, failed to properly conceal the cache of contraband verses within their designated cupboard prior to Aziraphale’s arrival; and so, at the sight of Aziraphale kneeling in front of his very best kept secret, Crowley pours himself a brimming glass of wine.

It’s not that he’s _ashamed_ of the poetry collection. They are quality works. He _is _of course, a demon of impeccable taste. 

But he does have a certain image to maintain. 

Sure, he’s not technically speaking, working for Hell these days. But he _is_ a demon, and they generally don’t go around waxing poetic. 

And they _especially_ do not collect _The Art of Pining: 101 Love Poems by Pablo Neruda._

Taking a deep swig of wine, Crowley props his hip against the counter and slouches into a rather elaborate shrug. 

“They’re, _er_, not mine.”

Aziraphale pauses in brushing his fingers over aged spines. Arching a brow, the angel conveys, without using a single word, that he believes Crowley to be _rather full of shit_.

“I mean,” Crowley starts, stammering, “I uh, _stole them?_”

“From _whom?_”

“I - er, a sweet old lady. Was a dastardly business, angel.”

“Honestly, dear.”

“_Fine_. I didn’t steal them. But I didn’t go out collecting them either! They were _gifts_ angel. _You_ of all people should know it’s rude to refuse a gift.”

Crowley is prepared to go on - _about how he had sent the thank you notes weeks later than was polite_ \- but Aziraphale is no longer listening. He’s already turned back to the shelf and is, once more, running reverent fingers over knobbly spines. Plucking one from the shelf, he flips through the pages. It’s a Shakespeare.

Swallowing the rest of his wine, Crowley miracles the glass full and stalks around to the bookshelf.

The collection _is_ comprised largely of gifts. They had been sent in thanks for the sizable donations made in support of the various poets. Despite its reputation, Crowley had always thought poetry, at heart, to be an _incredibly_ demonic endeavor. _Yeah, sure, it’s beautiful_, but there’s no rule that says demonic traits _can’t _be beautiful. And besides, some poetry is _so _beautiful, the writing and reading of it has been _known_ to stir up all kinds of impulses. Not all of them good. Just ask Byron. 

Crowley decides that he is going to tell Aziraphale exactly this, when the unimaginable happens. 

The angel is pulling an aged collection of T.S. Elliot’s poetry from the shelf, when a single leaf of paper slips from the pages, flips once, and flutters down, onto his lap.

The tea-yellow page is vaguely familiar, and taking a fortifying sip of wine, Crowley bends, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

As Aziraphale’s curious fingers unfold the page, the memory of _precisely what_ the page_ is _strikes Crowley with all the force of a freight train fueled by Hellfire.

_A half empty bottle of wine lingers, forgotten on his desk. Wrinkled papers crowd the surface, and ink spots sprinkle polished wood. Amidst it all, Crowley sits, hair mussed and tongue pressing between his lips as he glares down at ink smeared words. It is 1863 and the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, it had been at St. James’ Park. They’d argued. Thunder clouds had gathered on the horizon and it smelled of rain, but even so, the sun had played about Aziraphale’s hair, catching the blue in his eyes - and so Crowley scribbles on the page, because if Shakespeare and Dickinson and Byron could do it,** surely** he can; because he feels too bloody much and it **hurts **because Aziraphale is gone and not talking to him, and Crowley loves, he loves-_

Crowley glimpses smeared ink, and knows with a sudden, intense clarity, exactly the manner of writing the angel will discover on that page.

Red wine pours, like a waterfall, from the glass dangling loose in Crowley’s grasp.

Yelping, Aziraphale scrambles back, barely avoiding the splatter of red.

Glancing incredulously between Crowley and the pooling wine, Aziraphale purses his lips, and with a curt gesture, miracles the spreading puddle back into the bottle.

“_Really_, Crowley. Sober up a bit, darling. You’re making a mess.”

“M’not drunk.”

For the second time that evening, Aziraphale treats him to the_ look_.

“Really, I was just, uh,” Crowley sets the empty glass aside and folds his arms, attempting to look as though he’s not seconds away from discorporating from sheer mortification. “What’ve you got there? Can I have it?”

Aziraphale looks from the innocuously folded page to Crowley, and then back to the page. Curiosity is settling into the angel’s bright blue gaze, and Crowley’s stomach turns over.

“…what is it?”

“_Nothing_. Just old stuff. Trash, basically. Might as well get rid of it,” Crowley says, and presses thumb and middle finger together to banish the humiliating creation for good.

Aziraphale is faster.

With a single blink, Aziraphale and the paper wink out of existence. They reappear on the other side of the room. Aziraphale is seated in Crowley’s overlarge desk chair and the paper is open on the desk. With a snap, the angel’s reading glasses materialize on his face, and when he glances down, his eyes go wide and bright.

“I had no idea you _wrote_, Crowley!”

Crowley is across the room before Aziraphale can so much as take a second glance at the page. He slaps a hand over the paper. 

As if drawn by the movement, Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and they are automatically tracing the first line -

“_Aziraphale, stop!_”

It comes out choked, and there is no concealing the raw edge of panic in his tone.

Aziraphale jerks back, retracting his hand as if burned. 

Snatching up the page, Crowley clutches it, pressing it to his chest. And the room sinks into a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says at last, gently breaking the quiet. 

Crowley can feel the angel studying him, taking in his tense shoulders, pale countenance, and white-knuckled hands clutching at the paper.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, guilt heavy in his voice, “I didn’t mean - oh, _I shouldn’t have_. It’s yours. And it’s clearly private. I hardly saw anything, I promise. And I won’t attempt to read any further.”

And then Aziraphale is rising from the chair, circling the desk. Crowley blinks and careful hands are brushing up his arms. Relaxing at the touch is as simple as breathing; dipping his head, Crowley leans into it.

The apocalypse has come and gone. They survived it. And then survived the wrath of both Heaven and Hell which came immediately after. And now, against all odds - in a twist of fate Crowley hadn’t dared to dream of, he and Aziraphale have a life together. A life where touches like this are _allowed_. 

And with Aziraphale there, knuckles gently tracing the backs of Crowley’s hands as whispered apologies and assurances blend together into a single soothing murmur, Crowley comes to the abrupt and startling realization that he is acting like a _twat_.

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale says, soft fingers brushing over Crowley’s clenched hands.

Crowley’s fists unclench, and Aziraphale’s fingers immediately tangle with his own.

“Nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley replies, running fumbling thumbs over the backs of Aziraphale’s hands.

And he is being foolish, because this is _Aziraphale_. They shared bodies for _someone’s_ sake. After all that, sharing a bit of poetry should be a simple thing.

“It’s, ah, it’s okay,” Crowley finally manages. “Just - let me read it to you, yeah? A bit easier for me that way.”

Aziraphale pulls back, his concerned gaze tracing Crowley’s expression. 

“Really, you don’t have to do anything you don’t-”

“I want to,” Crowley interrupts. Against his chest, the paper feels warm - and he has to glance to check he hasn’t accidentally set it ablaze. “Just…take a seat?”

Aziraphale does. Folding his hands in his lap, he perches in Crowley’s high-backed chair.

Swallowing once, Crowley glances over the paper. How many times has he imagined reading this very page to Aziraphale? Of course, in his fantasies, they both wore gilded doublets and elegant ruffs - and Crowley often pictured himself delivering the poetry in a verdant, flowering garden, with Aziraphale listening, enraptured, from a moonlit balcony above.

But this works too.

Rubbing his uncomfortably moist palms on his pants, Crowley grimaces, glancing up.

“Dear, if this is too stressful-”

“It’s fine, just - the poem - it’s, um, about you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and leans back, cheeks pink.

Smoothing the abused paper, Crowley takes a fortifying look at Aziraphale, and begins.

“I dreamt, once,” he starts, and hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet. He can feel his heartbeat - which, physiologically speaking, he doesn’t strictly _need_ \- a staccato rhythm against his ribs.

A glance up -

Aziraphale waits, hands folded in his lap. His lips curve in a gentle, patient smile.

_It’s just a poem_, Crowley reasons. And besides, with Aziraphale _right here_, looking at him - smiling - it is ridiculous to be afraid.

Clearing his throat, he begins again.

-

“I dreamt, once

I was earth - summer dry,

Parched

And you, my heart,

An afternoon storm.”

-

Golden eyes flick up. A nervous tongue brushes dry lips.

-

“Lush drops,

Cut summer soft air

Striking earth

As I shed dust and drank in

Your every inch.

-

And if you were the gale,

I was the grass

Shivering

As I waited

Wanting.”

-

Crowley can feel Azirphale’s gaze, a prickling pressure, but he won’t look up from the page. If he stops, he fears he may not have enough courage to again start.

-

“And you, darling,

Rent the very air

Electric 

Engulfing earth, 

Me,

Everything

Everything.

-

Alone,

I woke

In a bed too large

With thunder groaning

And rain 

Pattering on the window 

Soft as you.”

-

He finishes, his voice little more than a croak.

Aziraphale rises from the chair.

Lowering the poem, Crowley presses his lips together, and nods once, looking at the floor. “It wasn’t much, I know. Not really much of a poet-”

Aziraphale interrupts him with a kiss.

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, kissing the frown from his lips. “It was lovely. You are lovely, my dear.”

Laid bare before the angel, Crowley feels reduced to his origins - a scattered constellation of fractured, burning lights. And yet, here, in Aziraphale’s warm, gentle arms, he is pulled together; made whole. 

When Aziraphale’s hands rise to cup Crowley’s face, the poem slips through his fingers. As they kiss, Crowley shifts a hand to Aziraphale’s back; and when he carefully presses Aziraphale against the desk, he makes sure his hand is between the hard edge and Aziraphale’s back.

Crowley kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, and then a slow, lingering path down the angel’s neck.

“You do remember that we confessed to, ah, a rather mutual love in the days following the whole Tadfield business. You really needn’t be embarrassed by - ah, um, a bit of poetry, dear.”

Bending, Crowley presses his face into the curve between Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck and admits, “…wrote it after that day in St. James’ Park. You know, the fight. Hadn’t seen you in quite a while and I,” he heaves a breath, “really missed you.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, voice soft as a caress. And then fingers are stroking up Crowley’s neck, brushing soothing trails through his hair. “You weren’t the only one who spent a good few decades pining away.”

Sighing against Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley parts his lips and presses a delicate kiss against the freckles nestled in curve of his neck. “Worked out in the end, at least.”

“I daresay it did. _And_ I learned you are _quite the poet_.”

Crowley presses a hand up over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Shh..”

Aziraphale chuckles and brushes feather-soft kisses against his fingers. “As I said before, dear - it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Retracing his way back up Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley mutters, “I’m a demon. Demons don’t wax poetic.”

“Oh they most_ certainly_ do. Have you ever_ listened to yourself speak?_”

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, kissing a path from Aziraphale’s jaw to his softly parted lips.

“Just, ah -”

Crowley hesitates, fingers stroking over Aziraphale’s waist.

“I’d like to hear it. Again,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s eyes flick up.

“Your poem.”

As Aziraphale reaches for the dropped page, Crowley grasps his hand. Massaging circles into his angel’s palm, Crowley brushes his lips over Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I dreamt, once, I was earth. Parched…”


End file.
